You're Welcome
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: Years ago, she used to fantasise about having Sherlock Holmes arrive at her door at midnight. But those were just dreams. Years later, she discovered the reality of having Sherlock Holmes use her flat as a bolt hole was much less exciting, dangerous or sexy. In fact, it was starting to become downright annoying.


A/N: From a Ficlet Friday Prompt from oishichan on Tumblr: "Sherlock does something nice and Molly just kind of kisses him, overwhelmed. Sherlock is like,"What was that for?" and is really embarrassed and pleased."

I try to fill at least one prompt every Friday. Please feel free to head on over to Tumblr (missmollybloom) and request away. Anything goes - as long as it's Sherlolly!

* * *

Years ago, she used to fantasise about having Sherlock Holmes arrive at her door at midnight.

Sometimes she'd dream he'd drag her out - still in her pyjamas - and take her God knows where. Like Amy Pond and the Doctor - but with more corpses, less humour and no TARDIS.

Sometimes she'd wonder if he'd ever need her to treat him - some kind of minor injury but one he'd want to hide from John. A few stitches perhaps. Nothing too dire, but enough to show he trusted her with the living as much as he respected her work with the dead.

Sometimes she'd wonder if he'd ever simply need her. Those where the dreams she kept returning to. Over and over. Imagining him desperate for her and she responding in kind.

But those were just dreams. Years later, she discovered the reality of having Sherlock Holmes arrive at her door at midnight was much less exciting, dangerous or sexy.

In fact, having Sherlock use her flat as a bolt hole was downright annoying.

The first time it happened, she didn't even realise he was there until she went to sit on the couch the next morning to drink her coffee before here 5am shift at Bart's.

As she sat, she felt a large lump beneath the throw blankets, which promptly started moving. Eyes unaccustomed to the pre-dawn gloom, Molly jumped up, dropped her coffee to the ground and grabbed the closest weapon she could find - the 800 page romance novel she had been reading - and threw it at the lump. The lump responded with a distinctly human 'urgh', causing Molly to scream and run to the kitchen in search of better weaponry.

A familiar baritone stopped her in her tracks.

"Molly."

She turned to see the surprising sight of Sherlock on her lounge, shirtless, using one hand to rub his head where the book must have landed and clutching said book in the other.

He looked at the cover.

"A Dragonfly in Amber." He said, reading the title, "Not in the mood to read about paleo-insectology, thanks. Just need sleep."

"But why are you doing it in my flat?"

"Closer," was his only explanation before lying back down and immediately falling back to sleep.

Molly left for work, and all morning found herself oscillating between excitement and confusion as to why Sherlock was in her flat.

All those emotions were replaced by anger and annoyance once she returned home to find the flat empty of consulting detectives but brimming with signs of his destructive occupation.

* * *

Molly let him know of her displeasure the next time he came into Bart's.

"Why the hell did you leave dishes in the bath?" She demanded.

He looked at her as if her question made no sense. "Because there was garbage in the sink," he said, as if it were a perfectly fine explanation.

Of course, it wasn't. "And why did you put garbage in the sink?" She continued.

Sherlock frowned, "Because the bin was full."

"And why didn't you take the bin out?"

She could tell that one had him stumped. He paused for a moment. "I don't know. Doesn't it usually take care of itself?"

"No Sherlock. Not everyone has a housekeeper"

"Landlady," he corrected.

"Landlady who for some unknown reason enjoys mothering you to the point that you've turned into an oversized adolescent."

She could tell he wasn't happy with her description of him. "Adolescent?" He repeated, angrily.

Molly wasn't about to back down, "Man-child," she added.

Instead of meeting her in her anger, Sherlock retreated, his face softening, his voice quiet. "Really?" he asked, "That's what you're think of me?"

"Well, a brilliant adolescent man-child," she said in an attempt at a joke.

"Oh" He said, in an almost adolescent huff. Molly smirked at how apt the title really was for him.

She could see him his eyes that she had hurt his feelings, so she let go of her anger. "Next time, just keep the rubbish and the washing up where they belong."

He arched an eyebrow at her, "Next time?"

She hated his ability to fluster her. "I mean - if you need - if you're - oh never mind!" She stumbled, before walking off.

* * *

Sherlock did learn his lesson about the washing up and the rubbish - although only to the point that he'd leave a pile of dishes in her sink and multiple bags of garbage next to her door.

But despite that one victory, there would always be some telltale sign of destruction left in his wake whenever he stayed at her flat.

One day she came home to scorch marks on the carpet and two cushions missing from the base of her lounge.

One morning, she woke up to piles of newspapers in her living room - some dating back to the mid 1970s.

One afternoon, she returned from a shift at Bart's to find her kitchen completely empty – no food, no plates, no cutlery, nothing.

She was at her wit's end with him when one morning he came into Bart's and did something she didn't expect: he actually asked her permission to use her flat that evening.

Of course, she was suspicious.

"Is it for a case?"

"No."

"Is it to hide evidence?"

"No."

"Is it to perform some ungodly experiment in my shower?"

"No, I promised I wouldn't do that again."

"Good," she smiled.

"Then I can use it?" He asked, and if she didn't know better, she swore he looked nervous.

"Sure."

* * *

Her day at Bart's was so busy Molly almost completely forgot that Sherlock would be there when she got home. She paused before opening the front door, preparing herself for whatever carnage awaited her.

The front door swung open. Molly almost couldn't believe her eyes.

The flat was tidy.

More than that, there were candles lighting her way to the lounge room.

And in the lounge room, brand new carpet to replace the one inexplicably scorched by Sherlock. And a new lounge as well.

On the table in the dining room, brand new plates and cutlery and on them, her favourite meal from Angelo's – Shrimp Scampi with Linguine. And white wine. Two plates, two glasses, she noted.

She was so taken by the sight that she didn't even notice Sherlock standing in the corner of the lounge room, watching her intently.

Molly couldn't help herself. So overwhelmed with his gesture, she found herself walking over to him. She had meant only to give him a quick hug, but somehow instead found herself placing a small gentle kiss on his lips.

She pulled away, embarrassed.

She tried to read him, tried to see if there was any reaction to her kiss. His face was blank, almost as if he was still there in body but his mind was elsewhere.

"What," he started, then stopped. A few moments passed before he spoke again. "What was that for?"

"Uh – um – thank you?" She offered by way of explanation.

She turned to walk over to the dining table, but he caught her by the wrist and turned her back to him. Before she knew it, he was kissing her. Not gently as she had kissed him, but with desperation like he was a man lost in the desert and she was life-giving water.

She broke the kiss and stared at him, breathless.

"You're welcome," he said.


End file.
